


Balaga, Troika and the Great Uber Escapade of 2018

by Cicadaemon



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy, Voyná i mir | War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Multi, Uber Driver Balaga
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-05-19 00:13:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19345582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cicadaemon/pseuds/Cicadaemon
Summary: Balaga is an Uber driver. He sees a lot of shit.





	1. Moscow July 2014/A Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This started with a conversation between me and tumblr user sungmee/intoanewlife about a modern retelling of The Great Comet from Balaga's perspective. And he's an Uber Driver. This conversation took place the night before we were suppose to see Josh Groban in concert so you know, living the best life. 
> 
> I am Canadian and though my family technically comes from a Slavic country, I know nearly nothing about the culture. I am doing the best research I can, but know I will poke fun at stereotypes. I also am dyslexic so I might make spelling errors that I won't notice I'm trying my best lads. Just point them out to me if you see them, I won't be upset at all.

There are several perks to being an Uber driver. Normally this would be the part where the perks are listed off, but most of those didn’t matter to what was happening. The perk that Balaga was being acquainted with now was the drunk customers who got up to crazy shit. Any normal person would sigh all exasperated, knowing they were about to deal with the worst kind of person. Balaga had gotten use to this though, and even if he hadn’t he’d still love it.

The three men had called him up, and when he arrived he was shocked at what he saw. A giant stuffed bear. The one man had opened the door with an excited grin on his face, Fedya Dolokhov he remembered. He had been called upon 3 times this week by the man and god he was really starting to like him.

“Is it alright if we put Bruin in the front with you,” His words barely slurred, but it was obvious he was drunk. Balaga flashed a smile at him.

“Put him in.”

With some wrestling the bear made it in, and there was a heated discussion outside who would sit where in the back. His dear zhiguli, which he had affectionately nicknamed Troika wouldn’t fit all three of these fools into the back seat. Balaga had popped the trunk opened and called out to them. “Put the smallest one in there.”

The discussion heated at this.

“Anatole you do it,” Dolokhov had said with a push. “You’re the twinkiest out of us.”

“Fuck you Fedya I’m a twunk. Make Bezukhov do it.”

“Can’t I’m a bearish-twink. My raw sexual power would destroy the trunk.”

“Are you implying you would fuck in there?”

The tallest (and broadest of them by a long shot) grinned before dissolving into laughter. “I don’t know what I meant! I won’t fit. Anatole go.”

Anatole, the blond twink groaned loudly complaining further that this wasn’t fair. Then Dolokhov and Bezukhov got into the car with wild laughter and teasing which Balaga wouldn’t help but join in with.

“So where does my good otter and bear want to go tonight.”

“Do you ever check the app? It literally says on there.”

He turned in his seat and smiled. “You think I play by the rules.”

The ride wasn’t out of the ordinary, except of course there were two very drunk men in the back seat singing loudly to the music on the radio in very affected English, a giant teddy bear in the seat next to him (which he learned they named Bruin), and a twink in the trunk who they eventually let out to sit on Dolokhov’s lap till they realised he could fit in the middle seat between them.

It was when they were near the first stop, Anatole’s flat that Bezukhov got a call. His smiling expression was gone in an instant as he listened to whoever was speaking. He hung up silently and when Anatole and Dolokhov had left the car he had spoken to him softly.

“Can you go to Orlovskiy Pereulok? To the hospital there? My father had a stroke.”


	2. 4 Years Later: January 11th 2018

“Perhaps going to the theatre will get your mind of it, Nasha?” The woman in the down coat asked the other. Her bright red hair was like nothing Balaga had seen before and assumed it was just dyed. She seemed the type too. At the same time she didn't seem the type. He decided it was better not to pick.

The other one, a little younger perhaps and in a double-breasted coat didn’t seem to pick up to the idea. Normally at this point, he would suggest a few different theatres, both legal and a little less legal, but he had a rule against being a creepy interrupting driver when he had two young ladies in the backseat. Sometimes it was better not to be friendly and just leave people be. 

“Nasha… please.” The red head spoke softer. “Andrei will be back before long, he’s said he was coming back after a year.”

“I know.” Nasha finally said after what felt like a year’s pause. Balaga wondered if it was ruder to eavesdrop or turn on the radio. “It’s been over a year now.”

“You know his health isn’t good. It’s why he went off in the first place.”

Nasha didn’t respond and instead turned to look out the window. The red head didn’t seem defeated, which he greatly admired. This wasn’t the first (or really second, third of fourth) time he had seen some sort of confrontation in the backseat of Troika, but it always ended the same. Awkward silence and Balaga not wanting to turn on the radio. General rule, let the two (or three) stew in their silence and maybe that’ll help. Drive a little more carefully (as careful as anyone can drive in Moscow). This was a touch different.

“I don’t want to upset you anymore; we’ll drop it completely. Or maybe you can tease me over Kolya’s absence.” The mentioning of this Kolya made Nasha pick up.

“Why would I want to tease you over another absence that upsets me too? Nikolai is my brother.”

“And my fiancée.”

Ah, now this was interesting.

“Sonya, I love you dearly. I would never want to upset you either.” Sonya seemed like a well suiting name to the red head. “Let’s drop all of this. And I would love to go to the theatre, not like we have a choice in the matter. You know Marya will drag us out no matter what we say.”

The ladies continued to talk, about the things and people they’d meet in Moscow. It painted a pretty good picture of Balaga. They were best friends obviously, maybe even childhood friends. Sonya, the red head, was engaged to Nikolai and seemed less distraught over not seeing him than Natasha seemed over her Andrei. They were Muscovites, but they had been living outside of the city for the last few years and briefly in St. Petersburg. They listed off names that Balaga recognised in a heartbeat. One was far too familiar.

“Lord help me if we have to meet with the Drubetskoys, I love Anna Mikhailovna, but everything that happened with Boris still embarrasses me.” Natasha said with a laugh. “I’d rather go and see Mr. and Mrs. Bezukhov.”

Sonya snorted. “As if Helene would stoop so low to come to Moscow.”

Balaga broke his rule then. “I actually hear they’re both in the city. I’m familiar with them, I’ve been invited to a few of the parties Helene and her brother have.”

He watched in the rear-view mirror as Natasha’s expression lit up.

“Thank you!” She then turned to Sonya. “I haven’t seen Pierre since Andrei went off. Remember the goodbye party?”

“How could I forget, you cried like a baby.”

He glanced up to the mirror again in time to see Natasha smack Sonya which earned her some laughter. “Well anyways, that was the last time I saw him, and my god he seemed so upset. We should drop in together to see him! I’m sure he’d be so happy if we did.”

Sonya didn’t get a good chance to respond as Balaga pulled up to the residence. “Your stop, ladies.”

He had another rule about driving ladies, which was waiting till they made it to the door. They didn’t get a chance to before a woman came rushing outside. Her clothing screaming Soviet chic, but the shawl was something you’d see on your babushka while she made jam. Her eyeshadow was a bright green, probably had the palette name of "I'll Never Avocado You" or something equally as weird. Some how this was the most iconic ‘lewk’ he had even seen in his life. And of course, it was Marya Akhrosimova.

“Natalya Illynichna Rostova!” She cried out giving the girl the biggest hug. She only turned and with a lukewarm tone she said, “Sofia.”

He drove off laughing at the memory of Sonya’s sour expression and Natasha delight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I won't be uploading every day cause I need to do some heavy editing but I felt bad just uploading chapter 1 with its meek 500 words


	3. January 13th 2018

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time for the Opera

Balaga had many rides that night. The first of many was that of Dolokhov and the very married Helene Bezukhova.

He had greeted Dolokhov like an old friend, getting out of the car and to hug the man. He had spoken about being away down the south and making ‘close acquittances’ some rich bastard.

“I’m telling you this right now.” Dolokhov said with a devilish grin as he sat into the back seat. “Persian girls are absolutely wicked in and out of bed.”

Helene seemed to be unfazed by the talk. Not surprising, he knew from what parties he had actually attended what sort of woman she was.

“Shame you didn’t bring any back to Moscow. I’ve always wanted to try a ménage à trois.” Her speech was slow, a smile appearing slowly as well. Her casual, yet well presented speech had always made the men go crazy. That and the way her tits almost always seemed to hang out of her dress.

“You tell me that as though you want me to believe you haven’t tried that.”

“Well I haven’t with you.”

Balaga snorted at that and took off to their destination. The next ride had been an awkward one. Helene’s husband. Oops. He tried not to think about what he had seen Dolokhov do to Helene as he greeted Pierre with equal warmness as he had done before.

“Been a long-time old man!” Balaga popped open the passenger side, feeling a little too guilty to let him sit in the back where he had watched his wife get basically motorboated.

“Too long.” Pierre said with a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He had always been a big man, but he had grown bigger since he had last seen him.

The destination was home, and Pierre rarely spoke throughout the drive, but it didn’t stop Balaga.

“The Rostova girls are in town.” He had mentioned as they got closer to the destination. “They mentioned wanting to see you.”

He picked up at that, for a second his eyes alight. “Natasha?”

“Yeah! That’s the one. Pretty girl.” He tried to recall the conversation he had overheard 2 days previous. He had given her ride the day before, to the Bolkonsky residence. An old codger who Balaga only knew from rumours. He didn’t know what transpired, but he had given her a ride back home and the poor thing was in tears the whole time. He had offered her tissues and the wise words of “old rich men are the worst.”

“Her fiancée should be back in Moscow any day now.” Pierre had said, his eyes downcast once more. “I know her family well, but only became acquainted with her just before my father’s death.”

“I remember that night.” Balaga stopped to slam on the brakes flip off someone who had cut them off. “I remember you and those fools you use to see putting a giant toy bear into that exact seat.”

He chuckled at that. “I got in trouble for that bear. Dolokhov had stolen it.”

The conversation had been lighthearted from there on out. He had learned that Natasha was in fact engaged to the Old Bolkonsky’s son. And that son was best friends with Pierre. A very complicated social circle.

The next ride was the aforementioned Natasha, plus Sonya and Marya. Something he had noticed with Helene and Dolokhov was present here too. They were dressed well. Really well.

“I’ll kill your cousin.” Marya had hissed as she fixed the fixed bow on her dress. It was a dark red that bordered on being purple. He could boast he wasn’t afraid of anyone, but Marya Dmitrievna struck that into him. Pretty and scary were a good combo. The dress helped. “Shinshin telling me he’d give us a proper ride to the Opera and yet here we are in some Soviet car with this scoundrel.”

Fear was too tame of a word to describe how he felt.

“Glad to see you recognise me.” He could feel his heart in his throat as he responded. She sat next to him in the passenger and my god if looks could kill.

“You nearly ran over my son.”

“Auntie Marya.” Natasha spoke up. “Leave him be. Knowing your son, he probably ran out in the street like a fool.”

He hadn’t, but Balaga didn’t have the heart of courage to correct her.

As they headed along, it was Natasha who kept up the conversation. What a change from the girl he had seen yesterday. She went on to talk about all the people she had hoped to see, and how pretty her dress was, and plans for when her father arrived in Moscow.

Overall, not a very entertaining drive, especially considering Marya kept giving him a nasty glance at every turn.

He had several rides after that, none interesting or worth noting. Then he picked up a familiar face. A familiar twinkish face.

Anatole Kuragin had barely changed over the years. He sat with a pompous air, though it suited him well. Tow-haired, well dressed and too arrogant to look at his feet. He liked Anatole. In fact, he always found a way not to charge him for a lift.

Not much was said, which Balaga didn’t mind. There was a simple hello and that’s that. It wasn’t until Balaga had dropped off Anatole that he realised he had drove all of them, with the exception of Pierre, to the same theatre.


End file.
